


Serenity

by Viscariafields



Series: Leandra Hawke [26]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Blood Magic, Dragon Age II - Act 3, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Illnesses, Poison
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:56:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27661001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viscariafields/pseuds/Viscariafields
Summary: “It’s not that I don’t like cats. I want to like them. They are very soft, which is a fine quality that I cannot critique. But cats don’t seem to like me very much.” She rolled up her sleeve to show the table. “I think the Qunari should make a cat their next Arishok. This one certainly got enough hits on me to put the last one to shame.”“What were you trying to do to it?” Sebastian asked.“It had fleas, which is all very unhygienic for the children. I’ve dealt with fleas before. Fleas hate water, thus you put the animal in the water, the fleas all abandon ship, job well done, everyone lives an itch-free existence.”“You tried to put a cat in water?”“I didn’t try. I succeeded. And that cat will thank me for it. Eventually.”~Hawke falls into an unawakenable sleep for mysterious reasons, and the gang is pretty helpless.
Relationships: Fenris/Female Hawke
Series: Leandra Hawke [26]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1462840
Comments: 32
Kudos: 47





	1. Chapter 1

“Merrill is sick. Went down to see her earlier. Something is going around the whole alienage.”

Hawke kicked her leg over the bench next to Fenris, not waiting for Sebastian to make room. Watching her take a swig of his drink, he supposed, “And now you bring it to Hightown. Or at least to her denizens.”

She rolled her eyes. “Wouldn’t that serve us snobby bluebloods right? Get a little fire in our veins, cut us down to size. Hard to take anyone seriously when they are sniffling. Ruin all those finely embroidered hankies of theirs.” Fenris didn’t mention that she had her _own_ collection of very finely embroidered handkerchiefs. He did too, now, since she wouldn’t stop making them. She took a piece of roasted potato off Fenris’s plate and grinned at him as she bit down into it. “But I wouldn’t worry about it. I was only with her for a few minutes, brought her some food, made sure she had what she needed. Of course, when I learned everyone else was sick, I had to go find a whole cartload of stew to bring down. None of the vendors were willing to go themselves.”

“So you were there for a few hours,” Sebastian said.

Fenris lifted an eyebrow. “Did you hand deliver each meal?”

Hawke paused, caught in her lie with a forkful of potatoes in the air. “Well not everyone was well enough to come out and get the food, so I went door to door to make sure everyone got their proper nutrition for the day. And of course, there’s more to life than just eating, sadly, so I helped a few people out with desperately needed chores, getting messages here and there.”

Sebastian asked, “Is that why I saw you walking a dog that wasn’t yours? I thought you were finally making good on your plan to steal all the dogs of Kirkwall.”

“When it happens, I’m going to start with the dogs in Hightown, and nobody will see me. Anyway, it was hardly the dog’s fault her owner wasn’t well enough to walk her herself. And they get very energetic cooped up all day, you know, so I walked them—”

“Them?”

Hawke glared at Fenris. He could be a little dog-like himself when it came to pouncing on innocent words that happened to slip her mouth. She was not going to admit just how many dogs she had ended up walking today. For one thing, she hadn’t bothered to count. “It. The dog. The one, singular dog that I walked as a favor to a very sick grandfather. There definitely weren’t multiple dogs once people found I was willing to walk the first one.”

Fenris began removing his coat. “So what I am hearing is that a highly contagious illness is going around the alienage, and you spent your entire day there, feeding the elderly and handling their dogs.”

He placed the coat around Hawke’s shoulders. “I’m not cold,” she said, wrapping it around herself.

“Yes, but I imagine you will be when the fever takes you within the hour.”

“I have a very strong constitution, you know.” Fenris raised an eyebrow at her. “Better give it two hours.”

“What’s the scratch on your arm?” Sebastian asked.

Hawke withdrew her hand, then sighed, giving up on Fenris’s dinner and shoving the plate toward him. “It’s not that I don’t like cats. I want to like them. They are very soft, which is a fine quality that I cannot critique. But cats don’t seem to like me very much.” She rolled up her sleeve to show the table. “I think the Qunari should make a cat their next Arishok. This one certainly got enough hits on me to put the last one to shame.”

“What were you trying to do to it?” Sebastian asked.

“It had fleas, which is all very unhygienic for the children. I’ve dealt with fleas before. Fleas hate water, thus you put the animal in the water, the fleas all abandon ship, job well done, everyone lives an itch-free existence.”

“You tried to put a cat in water?”

“I didn’t try. I succeeded. And that cat will thank me for it. Eventually.”

Donnic broke his stony silence with a snort. “I would have paid to see that.”

“Gratitude from a cat? Or Hawke drowning the poor thing?” Fenris suffered Hawke’s wounded look, her fee for eating his dinner. 

“I don’t have to take this, you know,” she complained, “I spared that poor creature a lifetime of suffering itchy spots. Where’s Varric? He would never treat me like this.”

And as quickly as she had sat down and interrupted their game, Hawke left, still wearing Fenris’s coat, to go talk to Varric.

# ~

Varric had reports to write. Investment reports, earnings reports, some light spying on the side; his papers spread a wide arc across his table. Every once in a while, through the dry, boring landscape that was being a responsible member of the Merchant’s Guild, he knew what the next line in his next story would be, and he wrote that down, too. His little reward for keeping his affairs in order.

He barely acknowledged when Hawke wandered into his suite. He had hit his stride, and he was going to knock this paperwork out within the next hour, so help him. That would get him at least three days of peace, cards, drinking, and whatever problems Hawke was about to dump in his lap. Couldn’t be worse than this shit.

“I heard the funniest joke today,” she announced, feet barely over his threshold. “I was in the Lowtown markets, by that stall that sells those Antivan pancakes. As an aside, are the Antivans known for pancakes? It hardly seems like a cultural tradition. Fish stew, those little grape leaf things, olives—those are Antivan. Do you think the owner of that stall never learned to cook anything else back home and just decided to make the most of it when he got here? Ferdo, I think his name is. Have you ever bought one of his pancakes?”

Hawke’s words too quickly became background noise to his work, but when he finally parsed the question, Varric grunted an affirmative. Hot food was hot food, and Varric liked the weird, spicy sauce Ferdo put on it. Maybe she was right, though, and it was only there to mask the incompetence. Fuck if he knew. It never made him sick and it was exactly what it claimed to be. Good enough.

She took a date from his bowl, plucking out the seed before popping it into her mouth. “Maybe I should try one, then,” she mused, “May I have some?”

She didn’t wait for his next grunt, uncorking the bottle that was holding down his earnings reports and pouring herself a glass of wine. Varric flipped through his letters, he was _certain_ he’d just had the one from the beet farm talking about the season’s yields. By the sound of it, Hawke had flopped into the chair across from him.

“So I was by that stall, and Gordon was there, you know, that idiot sailor who got himself punched silly last week when he tried to cheat Bran’s crew with some phony whisky. Still has some teeth left after that, and I guess he’s dead set on losing all of them.”

Varric found the letter and copied the numbers while Hawke told him about Gordon’s myriad problems. As long as Varric wasn’t expected to help her fix any of them, that was all fine. He was full up on friends with poor decision-making skills and poorer coin purses. The last pirate he befriended disappointed him bitterly, and he wasn’t ready to forgive them as a lot. He signed his last document with a flourish and realized Hawke had been silent for at least thirty seconds. He tried to remember what she’d last said to him. “Wait, what? Was any of that a joke?”

She was curled up in his chair, eyes focused on some invisible spot. “Sorry, do you hear that?” She closed her eyes in concentration. “Like a woman chanting.” Her last word tapered off into a wide yawn.

“The only woman I hear prattling is you.”

“Very funny,” she responded, rubbing her eyes. “Fenris would be able to hear her. He hears everything. I can’t quite make out the language, but I find I want to listen.”

Varric shook his head and went back to his papers. Now to just get them in order, make sure each one went to the right person. All it took was one instance of sending a draft of a chapter of Swords and Shields to his broker and business earnings to his editor to induce a careful precision in his affairs. He couldn’t afford to give his editor another raise. Or, at least, he wanted him to believe that.

“Hawke?” he called across the table without looking up, “Were you ever going to finish that joke?” Silence was her only response. “Hawke?”

She was asleep. The glass of wine beside her was full, untouched as far as he could tell. This is what she got for running around all day. Spent all her energy doing thankless work for the needy, and okay, maybe it was laudable, maybe it was part of the reason he liked her so damn much, but she couldn’t even muster enough strength to enjoy one drink and one joke with a friend. She did look sweet, though, head resting against the winged back of his chair.

“Wake up, Champion. It’s still early in the evening.”

Hawke didn’t respond. Varric walked around the table. “There have to be more comfortable places to nap. Bet Fenris has a shoulder for you. Bet he’d carry you home if you asked.” 

She didn’t so much as flutter her eyelids, so upon reaching her, he gently tapped her face. “Come on, Hawke. Up and at ‘em.”

Nothing. No response. This was ridiculous. He tapped her a little harder. “Hawke?”

His eyes fell on the wine glass next to her. Had she had any? Was it poisoned?

“ _Hawke_.” He shook her shoulders, but she remained limp, unresponsive. Nothing. Just slow breaths, in and out.

“Norah!” Varric shouted, running for the door. The woman, usually slow to do anything, must have heard the panic in his voice. He met her on the stairs. “Get me the fastest runner at the bar. Tell him to bring me the healer out of Darktown.” Norah hurried down the stairs, and Varric hollered after her, “And tell me what room has a free bed!”

“Room three!” she called over her shoulder.

Varric hauled Hawke out of his chair and carried her down the hall. He kicked open a door, possibly with a little more force than necessary when it bounced almost straight off the hinges, and whacked him in the arm, and laid her across the empty bed while a woman shrieked and began hiding her personals. He didn’t have time to coddle someone’s sense of propriety—he could already hear the hurried footsteps of Fenris approaching.

“What is happening?” he demanded as Varric adjusted Hawke to a more comfortable looking position. Her breaths were still slow and steady, but she hadn’t so much as twitched as he carried her over.

“I should very much like to know the same,” the random woman snarled.

Fenris barely spared her a glance before kneeling next to Hawke. “What has happened?” he asked again, pressing his knuckles to her forehead.

“I don’t know, elf. She fell asleep—I don’t know.” He shook his head uselessly. What _had_ happened?

“Hawke,” Fenris called gently, and Varric balled his fists. If quietly calling her name would wake her up, he would have had a lot more trouble hauling her across the hall as she struggled and complained. But it was always strange to see Fenris like this, a shocking tenderness he applied to no other parts of his life. Already his spiked gauntlets were removed so he could stroke her face. “There’s no fever,” he declared.

“It might have been poison,” Varric offered, “I didn’t see if she drank any of the wine but—”

“She was surrounded by sick people all day,” Fenris growled. Sebastian now crowded the doorway, the room too small for all of them.

The other woman spoke again. “Will someone explain why there are three men here and one unconscious woman in _my_ room?”

Varric appraised Hawke’s new roommate. A human, Orlesian by the sound of it, fallen on hard times by the lived-in look of her once-fine clothes. Irrelevant, as far as Varric was concerned. She paid for a bed, not a room, and definitely not for any of their business or attention. That all cost a lot more than some shit bed in the Hanged Man, and definitely more than she could afford. He turned back to Hawke.

“Our friend has taken ill,” Sebastian said, apprising the situation quickly, “Thank you for allowing us to care for her here.”

How like a noble to thank someone for something that wasn’t offered and broker no possibility of refusal. Varric snorted.

Anders arrived, a sixth body squeezing into a room meant for two, but all he could tell them was what they already knew. Hawke was sleeping. She would not wake. It was probably magic, but without being there when the spell was cast, he couldn’t say more.

Fenris perched silently by Hawke’s legs, his face growing stonier.

“So… what?” Varric asked, “Now we just wait?”

“Truthfully, I haven’t seen a spell like this before,” Anders responded, though he sounded almost bored by the whole thing. “Without being able to trace it, I can’t say how long it will last or what the goal was. But at this point, I don’t think it will kill her.”

“So you are of no use.” The elf didn’t bother looking at Anders as he addressed him.

Anders directed his instructions to Varric. “If anything changes, let me know. But for now…”

“Wait it out?”

Anders shrugged. “Sleep isn’t fatal. Most likely someone wants her distracted, not dead. I imagine we’ll hear of some plot tomorrow. A heist. An attempt on someone’s life.”

“We didn’t have any intel on anything tonight. She wasn’t going anywhere anyway.”

“Well. Someone wanted to keep it that way.” Anders sighed, looking like he could use the sleep Hawke was getting. “Wait it out. She’ll wake up.”

Varric wished he shared his confidence. One by one they filed out under the glare of Hawke’s new Orlesian roommate. She sat cross legged, her possessions clutched behind her back, as if the real plot was to break into an open room and take her worthless stuff. Fenris stayed motionless on Hawke’s bed, impervious to the scrutiny. If anything changed, he’d be sure to let them know.

Back to his room, he tossed the wine. The dates, too. He’d already had a few of them, but subtle poisoner only needed to hit one or two in the bunch. A shame, too, as he’d gotten a special deal on these, and he’d hate to have to kill the merchant who sold them to him. He’d promised him figs, next, and Varric couldn’t say no to a good fig.

He penned a few more notes—inquiries to his network—and paid the runner who had fetched Anders, for all that was worth.

Magic. A spell like that would never have worked on a dwarf, if it even was a spell, though reflecting on that now was useless. Hawke slept every night, soundly, easily, up in Hightown, far away from Varric, and yet this did not settle him at all as he sat in his chair and stared at the wall. Someone wanted the Champion of Kirkwall out cold, and Varric wouldn’t sleep well until he found out who and why.


	2. Chapter 2

Fenris was having trouble keeping his eyes open. He’d kept vigil through the night. Despite the others’ belief that Hawke’s slumber was safe, Fenris was ill at ease. If it was blood magic, they could mean to take or change her mind. Otherwise, it could be a sort of ambush. Incapacitate her somewhere public yet friendly, familiar. Then slit her throat.

He should have carried her home.

Though maybe they were there now, ransacking the place. If that were the case, he hoped that Bodhan, Sandal, and Orana had the good sense to hide. There was nothing in that mansion Hawke cared about that couldn’t be replaced save the people.

It was midday now, and though Varric walked past every twenty minutes, this could hardly be counted as a sufficient guard. The man seemed to believe that simple good will toward the Champion would be enough to protect her. That nothing bad could ever happen here, in their hallowed haunt.

As if mere months ago Fenris had not been attacked here by a magister. The marks of magic still scarred the walls and the floor had been entirely replaced. Everywhere he looked, he saw violence. 

When he closed his eyes, sleep descending unwillingly, his memories took him back further than that, back to the very beginning. In one moment he was sitting on the edge of a single-person cot in the Hanged Man, sword across his knees, and in the next, he was searching for Danarius in Hightown with a group of strangers whose names he now bore in his heart. Hawke, Isabela, Varric, and—

“You harbor a viper in your mist,” he warned her, “It will turn on you and strike at you when you least expect. That is in its nature.”

Hawke’s daggers were unsheathed before he finished the sentence. “Call my sister a viper one more time, and see how that works out for you, stranger.”

It was an invitation to correct his course—her daggers were not threatening him yet, though her grip was tight, her body coiled and ready to spring. As his markings began to pulse, his body readying himself for another fight, his gaze traveled between her and the mage. He saw it now, the resemblance about the eyes. Hawke swallowed.

“You’re Tevinter,” she said slowly, her expression softening, though her muscles stayed tense, “I hear snakes are revered there. Perhaps you only meant to pay her a compliment.”

How easily she allowed him a second chance. “Forgive me,” he replied, the lyrium falling silent, “I meant no offense. I know there must be some mages who do nothing but good in the world. I look forward to making the acquaintance of such a one.”

As quickly as the daggers appeared, they were sheathed.

“Bethany,” Hawke said, “She goes by Bethany.”

“Don’t tell me she’s sleeping it off in here. Things never change.”

Fenris hadn’t heard that voice in years, and he blinked a few times to verify he was not still sleeping himself. Isabela stood in the doorway to the room, one hand on her hip and the other leaning against the door jam, and though Fenris rubbed his eyes, she did not disappear. He turned back to Hawke. “She’s not.”

“Just… sleeping then?”

“Yes.” Fenris was too tired to ask her where she’d been and why she was back. He’d been sitting in this cramped room for two nights and now into his second day, waiting for something to happen. For Hawke to wake up or get worse, for new magic to make itself known, an enemy to appear to finish her off. Their unwilling roommate had left earlier in the day, gathering her things with a huff and muttered Orlesian curses and she had not returned. Fenris still crouched at the end of Hawke’s bed, ignoring the rumpled free one. Isabela sat there now.

“Well wake her up. I’ve been dreading this reunion, and it’s no fun if she’s not even awake for it. Can’t trust _you_ to forgive me, no questions asked, with big hurt eyes that make me feel worse than if she just told me off for once. You’ll probably brood about it for a few days, serves me right. So wake her up and I can get this over with.”

“She won’t wake up.”

Isabela sighed. “Yeah. That’s what Varric said.” 

Fenris said nothing. Isabela had been one of his first friends in Kirkwall. He met her on the same night he met Hawke. He looked at her now, truly looked at her. Her jewelry had changed only in form, if not ostentation. Her left ear held yet another piercing. The scarf she wore was new, embroidered by a familiar hand. So she _had_ received the letters Hawke sent out into the void in hopes of finding her. Somehow that was worse.

Isabela bore his scrutiny comfortably for a minute, but when she shifted her pose to enhance his view of her generous bosom, old tricks, he turned away with a sigh.

“Have you tried kissing her?” she asked.

Fenris was in no mood for nonsense, especially from her. “ _No_.”

“Truly?” Isabela uncrossed and crossed her legs. “It’s the first thing I would have tried.”

“I’m not kissing an unconscious woman.”

“It’s from a fairy tale, Fenris. A story they tell to children? True love’s kiss is the only thing that can wake up the sleeping princess.” He was unfamiliar with the story. Even if they told the same tales in Seheron, he would not have remembered. And Hawke was no princess. He said nothing, so Isabela prodded. “What harm is there in trying?”

“I am not kissing her.”

She laughed. “She’s not just some unconscious woman. She’s the woman you love. Shacked up with, so I hear. About time, if you ask me.”

“It is not true love’s kiss if she is asleep.”

“Oh, well if you don’t love her while she’s sleeping, come downstairs and have a drink with me. I’ve missed you terribly.”

“That is not what I meant.”

“That you don’t love her or she’s not sleeping?”

Who was she, to show up after three years’ absence and tell jokes like nothing had changed? _Everything_ had changed. His response came through clenched teeth. “You are irritating me on purpose.”

“Yes, and isn’t it nicer to have a target for your ire?” She stood up, bracelets jingling. He noticed now the fine lines around her eyes—contrition was a poor look on her. Isabela dropped her gaze to her toes, boot scuffing the floor. “That’s me, always thinking of others first.”

Fenris turned back to Hawke, who was unmoved by this conversation. Isabela was right—she _would_ forgive her, no questions asked, no grudges held. It was a ridiculous way to live her life, and yet… And yet Fenris had missed Isabela as much as Hawke had, perhaps more, given his smaller circle of friends. Her absence had cut him deeply, but here she was, of her own volition, admitting she cared. Forgiveness would grant him the friendship he missed instantly, if he were capable of letting go. 

“Perhaps the shock of a heartfelt apology from you will wake her up,” Fenris suggested. It was almost an olive branch. More of a bare twig devoid of leaves, but a start.

Isabela exhaled and nodded. She sat carefully next to Hawke, brushing her pale fringe out of her eyes. “This is not how I thought we’d see each other again. I thought I’d sneak back into Kirkwall, like a thief in the night. Your dwarf would tell you I was here, and you would come, and I would… I don’t know. Insult you until you figured out you were too good for me. Or just drag you down to my level. Get you drunk and convince you to do something really sleezy until I could look you in the eye again. But who knows, you’re just as likely to have convinced me to do something good again. Helped some poor orphan out of the goodness of my heart. As if my heart has goodness. It doesn’t, you know. Or at least, I didn’t think it did until I met you.” She sighed, her face turned so Fenris couldn’t see it. “I suppose leaving like that really did cancel out anything nice I might have done. I’m sorry, sweet thing. Now wake up.” Before he could stop her, Isabela bent down and planted a kiss right on Hawke’s lips. It wasn’t much of a kiss, not by Isabela’s standards, anyway, but Fenris still pushed off the wall and onto his feet, fists clenched.

Hawke moved.

Or at least he thought he saw her foot shift on the bed. Had he moved her in his rush to stop Isabela? He stilled himself, hardly daring to breathe, and she moved again. “Fen?” she asked, one eye opening, then another.

“I can’t believe that worked,” Isabela laughed as Fenris shoved her aside. “And though it’s not the first time I’ve kissed someone and they’ve said someone else’s name, it still stings a little.”

“Is that Bela?” Hawke asked, her voice still thick with sleep, “Is this real?”

Fenris found his words. “You’re awake,” he breathed.

“That’s debatable.” She rubbed her eyes. “Whatever I drank last night must have sent me back in time, I think. We must tell Corff to get more of it. Can’t even remember what it was.”

“I’m back,” Isabela said over Fenris’s shoulder, “Just today in fact.”

“You’re not hungover,” he told her, “What do you remember?”

She cast her eyes about the room. Isabela took her seat on the other bed again, and when Fenris glanced at her, she blew him a kiss and mouthed ‘you’re welcome.’

“I was eating your dinner,” Hawke said, “And then I spoke to Varric.” She rubbed her face with a small sigh. “Why are you looking at me like I came back from the dead? Save it for Isabela. I still don’t understand what she’s doing here.”

Isabela rose from her bed and peered down at Hawke. “Do you forgive me for my long absence?”

“Of course,” Hawke said, no hesitation at all.

Isabela shook her head. “Then I’ll leave you to him, sweet thing, and you can buy me a drink later. We’ll catch up.”

Simple as that, Isabela was back, and all was forgiven. Fenris might have mustered annoyance if he weren’t so relieved that Hawke was awake. He could do barely more than stare at her.

“Maker, _you_ look awful,” Hawke said, sitting up and putting her feet on the floor, “We must get you home. Where are my shoes?”

If he had been less exhausted, he might have laughed.


	3. Chapter 3

It took another hour to leave the Hanged Man. Varric popped in, also looking like utter shit. Hawke had never seen him so unshaved before, and only then did she appreciate just how long she’d been asleep. A three-day shadow on him really was just a beard. A little woozy on her feet after not eating, so a meal was purchased, and Isabela really was back, sitting with one boot hiked up against the table, like nothing had changed at all, and Hawke felt like reality had perhaps shifted a little to one side while she was asleep.

“So other than Isabela, _nothing_ happened?” Hawke asked.

Fenris looked stricken. “You suffered an unknown magical attack and were unconscious for almost three days.”

“Yes, other than that part.”

Varric huffed. “Oh, well, other than _that,_ no, nothing happened.”

“How do we know it was magic again?”

Varric listed it all on his fingers. “It didn’t match the sickness in the alienage, the wine wasn’t poisoned, the dates weren’t poisoned, Fenris’s dinner wasn’t poisoned.” He looked to Fenris for anything else, but Fenris only glared at his lunch. “And usually people don’t fall asleep for days at a time, completely unable to be roused.”

“How do we know I wasn’t just very, very sleepy?” Hawke asked, “Seems like a lot of work to leave me very well rested. Maybe they were trying to do me a favor. Make sure the Champion is in fighting form.”

“Hawke.”

A gentle admonishment, and perhaps she shouldn’t push it. Both Fenris and Varric looked like they were fraying at the edges. And, given that _nothing_ had happened, Hawke found the reaction a little over the top. A little unnecessary. A little absurd, even. But she would indulge them.

Back at the estate, she found she couldn’t sleep that night. Well, perhaps she could have, if she’d gone to bed. She’d slept enough, she reasoned, and if she felt some small fear that if she fell asleep again, she would not wake up this time, she certainly wasn’t going to tell Fenris. He was already on edge, and, again, she could not stress this enough, literally nothing bad had happened while she was sleeping, and sleep could hardly be considered a bad thing.

Fenris was not a morning person. Now that they lived together, Hawke instituted a household policy that he was not to be bothered until he emerged of his own volition. Even so, it was better strategy to avoid him for the first hour of wakefulness or so.

He did not always bother to avoid her, however. He padded through her drawing room, more thunderstorm than man, and paused to ask her with a slumber-rumbled voice, “What are your plans for today?”

“Well, I see I missed a letter from Bethany while I was out, so I thought I’d start by writing her back. That could take anywhere between five minutes and three hours, really. After that, I don’t know. I should very much like to know what Isabela has been doing all this time. Do you suppose she came back because she needs help with something?”

“And if she did?”

“Well then I suppose I’ll be busy with whatever that is.”

Fenris stared at her for a moment, and she wasn’t certain if it was sleepy confusion or actual irritation on his face, but he wandered off, presumably to drink some tea and unrumple his hair.

He came back with a full teapot and a mug for her. “You weren’t serious about what you said earlier, were you?”

She set the pen down. Three hours to write a letter it would be, if she ever wrote it at all. _Sorry, Bethy._ “I don’t know, am I ever? Which part? What did I even say?”

“That you are going to spend the day with Isabela at the Hanged Man.”

She blinked at him. “Is there something you’d rather do?” His expression led her to wonder if she had perhaps accidentally started speaking in old Dwarven. Stony didn’t begin to describe it. “Oh,” she said, growing a little nervous, “Was I supposed to help you with something today? I’ve… I’ve completely lost track of time, to be honest, I have no idea what day of the week it even is, come to think of it…”

“Hawke. There is not—no.”

His jaw clenched and unclenched. That wasn’t sleep incomprehension on his face—it was frustration. He was _annoyed_ with her. For what? It wasn’t like she had _done_ anything for the past few days. She folded her arms over her chest. “You’re not angry that Isabela kissed me, are you? Because I don’t think I had much choice in that.”

“No, that’s not—”

“I don’t think it’s worth being annoyed with her, either. And honestly, true love can exist between friends. There’s no limit as to how much of my love is true. I’m sure Varric could have—”

“It’s not about her kissing you,” he interrupted. “Fasta vas, I do not care about that. Or about Isabela. I am… concerned. Someone tried to kill you at the Hanged Man, and you plan to act as though it never happened and go back there with no plan to protect yourself.”

Hawke laughed, though even she had to admit it sounded a little forced. As if the tavern were responsible for whatever it was that happened to her. “Let’s not overstate things. I was sleepy, I slept, and I’m awake now. It’s as ordinary as anything.”

“It was not, and you know it.”

A good thrust by Fenris there, but she sidestepped it easily. “You always say I need to get more sleep.”

“No, what I say is you wake up too early in the morning.”

And now to drop the smoke flask and follow it with a quick and verbose attack. She stood up and took his hands in hers. “Why is it that when someone can’t sleep at night, it’s some sort of illness, but when I can’t sleep in the morning, it’s painted as a virtue? I can’t help it anymore than you can. Besides, there isn’t even much to do in the mornings. Listen to the birds, savor my tea… go to the chantry, if I really wanted to punish myself. I’ve heard the fish markets open early in the morning. But all the good things happen later. And by then I’m tired.”

Fenris, like any good warrior, could take a blow or two without stumbling. “You are changing the subject.”

Blast. She smiled at him, batting her eyes. “Is it working?”

“No.”

She dropped his hands and the act with a heavy sigh. Maker, she did _not_ want to talk about this. As far as she was concerned, the entire episode was over and done with. “It really wasn’t that _good_ of an attempt on my life. Do we need to worry about such sloppy would-be murderers?”

“ _Hawke_.”

“I mean what will they try next time? Poison me by cooking me an incredibly nutritious dinner? Maybe they’ve heard how cabbage doesn’t sit well with me these days.”

“So you concede there will be a next time.”

That took the shine right out of her words. She sat down in her chair and glared at her desk. Pouting like a child, really, who stepped in her own trap while Fenris gloated with his eyebrow cocked. “Well what should we do, then?” she asked to her stack of unread letters, “Write up a list of everyone in Kirkwall who would like to hurt me? We can kick down warehouse doors and murder everyone inside until there are only two of us left in this city, if you want.”

“We could take this threat seriously.”

“Does it surprise you that I don’t exactly love the idea of figuring out just how many people I’ve pissed off? I’ve done a lot of things in this city, Fenris, and lots of people die as a result. People who have cousins and siblings and spouses and business partners and dogs.”

She sipped her tea, forgotten until this moment, and cold now, and glared at her letter to Bethany, which consisted only of _Dear Bethany_. It could only go downhill from here, really. Might as well send it as is.

She knew that it would all catch up with her someday. She had thought the title of Champion was repayment enough for the great fortune she had stumbled into, but she’d been wrong. There were always new, very obvious mistakes to wander into. If she kept moving fast enough, she might be able to avoid ever having to face them.

Fenris dragged a chair from across the room to sit next to her. “Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve never killed a dog.”

She huffed, but he looked less angry now at least. “No, but you have, and it’s all the same, isn’t it? Everything you do, or Aveline does, or Isabela does all comes back to me.” She kicked off her slippers so she could bring her knees up to her chest and wrap her arms around them. “You think I won their favor that day with the Arishok? What do nobles hate more than owing someone something? There’s no seneschal to blame for all the problems in the city. There are no more Qunari camping out in Kirkwall to remind them why they liked me in the first place. I’m a target, nothing more. I’m surprised they haven’t sent assassins after me already, but I suppose it’s too expensive.”

Fenris sighed. He looked like he wanted to say something, but Hawke cut him off just to stop him from being right about whatever it was he said next. “The point is… the point is people are _always_ trying to kill me, and they always will be, and I don’t see what’s so different about this one.”

If there had been a right thing to say, and Hawke very much doubted there were, _this_ had not been it. Fenris’s hands balled into fists as his vexation roared back to life. “The difference is you were attacked in front of all of us and we don’t even know who did it or why.” Fenris opened his mouth, the words stuck in his throat for a moment before he continued his onslaught. “The difference is there was no defense, not a single thing any of us could _do_. Do you understand? Do you know what it was like to watch you for two days?”

Hawke swallowed. In a very real and deliberate way, she had not thought about it. “Why are you angry at _me_ about it?”

“Because before this conversation I assumed you valued your life. But now I wonder if you see the end as a forgone conclusion.”

He looked as stunned as she felt, like his own words had punctured a hole in his chest. He quickly looked away from her, the muscles in his jaw and neck so tense she almost wanted to reach with her hand and smooth them out.

“I do,” she whispered, “I do value my… I just… I don’t know what else to do. How else to be.” 

They fell into silence. Fenris rubbed his forehead, shoving his hair out of his eyes. By the looks of it, he was developing a headache. And as much as she’d like to blame their argument on that, some other pain that Hawke wasn’t responsible for, there was truth to his words. And, frankly, she probably caused the headache, too. 

“I’m sorry,” she said.

He shook his head, opening his mouth to speak three times before landing on, “I’m sorry as well.”

He was pinching the bridge of his nose now. She would have to lead him back to bed in a moment and close all the curtains. But for now, she reached to run a hand through his hair, and he leaned into the touch. “You love me,” she stated.

“I love you.”

“And do you promise to sleep by my side and laugh at my jokes?” she asked.

“If you should ever make a joke, I promise to laugh heartily.”

She leaned forward and dropped her forehead against his. “I don’t think I shall ever forgive you for that.”

Truly?”

“No,” she breathed, “I mean yes. I mean—you’re forgiven.”

# ~

“Varric, do I have a will?”

It wasn’t the weirdest entrance Hawke had ever made, but it took him a minute to switch from his reading to parse the question. “Uh, I wrote one for you before we went to the Deep Roads. And then I wrote another when we came back rich. It’s had to be updated since then, most recently when Fenris moved in with you. Why?”

Hawke closed her eyes and settled into the same chair where she’d passed out earlier in the week. That plus this conversation had his hands itching for Bianca. “Am I leaving everything to Fenris?”

“No,” he said cautiously, “Some of it is going to Merrill. Some of it is going to various charities. Fereldan Refugee Fund, which really just means Anders, widows and orphans of the guard, chantry orphan fund, some other stuff. Bethany can’t inherit anything, but I put a note in here for her to take whatever keepsakes she might want.”

“There’s a bracelet that belonged to my mother. She’ll know the one. She should have it.”

“I’ll make a note,” he grumbled. He really, really didn’t want to update her will. The paperwork alone was a nightmare, and the topic wasn’t something he relished thinking about, especially when she was sitting in _that_ chair. Shit, he should have gotten rid of the thing. Bad luck to keep a chair like that in his room. When she fell silent, he turned back to reading the newest serial from that hack writer in Starkhaven. As if the templars would be better at solving mysteries than the city guard. The only mystery he’d seen a templar solve was ‘which one of us can shout the loudest while wearing the thickest armor, oh it’s me.’

“Is there anything _you_ want?” Hawke interrupted.

Varric closed his book with a sharp snap and a glare. “Your health and longevity. Hawke, what is this about?”

“Fenris thinks I’m not taking this whole magical-two-day-nap seriously enough.”

“Call it that and I agree with him. And shit, your response is to make a will? Andraste’s ass, Hawke.” He laughed, though there was very little mirth on his face. “This is… This is the opposite of what the elf wants you to be doing.”

“I don’t have any more information than anyone else does,” she protested, “I don’t know why _I_ have to be the one to do something. Maybe one of you should solve my problems for once.”

She had a point. But just seeing her in that chair, same as the other night, had the blood pounding in his ears. If she yawned, he’d probably cave in and have a heart attack on the spot.

“Well, for a start,” he suggested, “If someone is trying to kill you, maybe you should stop traveling alone.”

She waved this away. “Fenris has a headache.”

 _Then stay in Hightown_ , he wanted to grumble. Instead he said, “The two of you really should just move to Lowtown. Save you a lot of time walking back and forth.”

 _And me a lot of worry_. And possibly money. He’d didn’t bother paying protection for her like he did with Daisy; very few gangs left in Kirkwall would be persuaded by it if they had the jump on her. No, Varric was bleeding money to buy _information_ for all that was worth and passing anything he could to Aveline to deal with. Nothing had indicated there would be an attack on her like this.

“It has to be blood magic,” she groaned, “That’s what everyone is thinking. But it’s like looking for a needle in a haystack. Or more like… for a blood mage in a pile of other blood mages.” She paused a beat. “How _is_ Merrill?”

Varric chuckled. “Recovering. She has a terrible sniffle.”

Hawke retrieved a knife from her belt—one of at least ten—and began flipping it in her hand. “I’d pay her a visit, if I had a suitable escort.”

Flick, catch. Flick, catch. Varric wouldn’t mind a trip to the alienage today. Might calm his nerves to get Hawke out of this room.

Flick, catch.

“You know, Hawke, if it _is_ blood magic, I have a suggestion for you.”

Flick, catch.

“I’m all ears.”

She flicked the knife higher, getting two more rotations in before snatching it from the air.

“Try not to cut yourself and leave your blood everywhere for random people to find.”

She laughed and put the knife away. “Fair point to the dwarf,” she conceded, “On to the alienage then.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of alcohol and mild drunkenness in this chapter. And blood.

Hawke was struggling to get her boots on when the knock landed on the door. Fenris crossed the room to answer, but she waved him away, hopping half-barefoot to welcome whoever it was to the estate. Her face split into an enthusiastic grin. “Merrill!”

His feelings toward the small woman standing at their doorstep were far more tepid.

“Happy birthday, Hawke.” Merrill thrust a bouquet of flowers that had obviously been freshly plucked from Lady Brya’s gardens. Hawke, who had spent the prior morning reluctantly entertaining Lady Brya and her many demands to have Hawke stake out her holdings in the countryside to root out “poachers, elves, and other vermin,” gave Fenris a look that said she recognized the provenance of these flowers as well as he did.

“I absolutely adore them,” Hawke gushed, ushering Merrill inside and continuing to limp with her one-booted foot, “But I’m afraid it’s not my birthday.”

Merrill followed her to the kitchen, where Hawke placed the flowers in water.

“Are you certain? Oh, but it must be. Meredith has told the whole city. She’s declared it a feast day in honor of our Champion. There’s food and drink and activities?”

Hawke scoffed. “I would never tell Meredith my birthday. Can’t trust her with personal information like that. No telling what she’d do with it.”

Fenris cleared his throat. “It appears she’s declared a holiday with it.” Hawke narrowed her eyes at him. He succeeded at hiding a smile as he asked, “Hawke, is there a chance you would tell Meredith a false date for your birthday?”

A rhetorical question. Fenris knew if Meredith asked her the color of the sky, Hawke would respond that it was green. If she asked Hawke for her address, Hawke would tell her Rivain. She’d lied about her own first name to Meredith, and because nobody ever used it, Fenris wasn’t certain the Knight-Commander knew Hawke’s name wasn’t Bartrand. It was only when Bethany had accidentally called her “Leandra” in public that Fenris had learned Hawke possessed a first name, and Bethany had earned herself a punch in the arm for her slip-up. 

“Me? Tell a falsehood?” Hawke delicately picked a stray leaf off one of the stems. “What kind of man would cast aspersions on the Champion’s honor during the public feast for her birthday?”

She plucked a large, pink bloom from the batch, cutting the stem with one of her many knives. Smiling, she placed it behind Fenris’s ear.

“Hawke?” he asked, wondering if he was to keep it all day. She picked through a drawer and produced a hairpin, and he tilted his head so she could fasten the flower.

“Now you look festive.”

She was in a better mood since she started sleeping again. She thought he hadn’t noticed how she stayed up later “reading” and slipped out of bed when she thought he was asleep. Or how she dozed off while standing on more than one occasion. One of them needed to be well-rested, and poking at her rarely elicited the desired result. But a month had passed with no further attack, and Fenris was almost ready to accept her version of reality, where this had been a sleepy and meaningless episode.

“I knew it wasn’t right,” Merrill fretted, as Hawke attached a matching flower to one of the many buckles crossing her chest, “I was certain your birthday was in the autumn. But I don’t think we can’t cancel the festival now. It’s already started.”

“My birthday is next month.”

“Hawke, your birthday was three weeks ago,” Fenris corrected her.

“What? It can’t be Cloudreach already.”

“We are well into Bloomingtide.” She looked to Merrill for confirmation, who nodded. Hawke turned back to Fenris.

“So we missed my birthday?”

He threw his hands up defeat. “I cooked you dinner, and we had apple pie. After, I gave you a new pair of leather gloves that you are currently wearing.”

She grinned at him. “I thought you did all those things because you love me.”

He waited, arms crossed over his chest, as she made her slow approach. With narrowed eyes, she slipped her arms around his neck and bent herself into him even as he remained unmoved.

“Was that the night you drew me a bath?”

“Yes.”

“And you filled it with dried lavender?”

“Yes.”

“And then we—”

“ _Yes_.”

She grinned even wider, and Fenris found his hands had moved to hold her at the waist. She always did win this game.

“You really do love me,” she murmured. And after that night, everyone in Hightown knew exactly how Hawke felt about him. If they hadn’t already. 

Fenris cleared his throat. “So will we attend you false-birthday feast?”

“Oh, you must!” Merrill cut in, “I overheard people saying they wanted you to try their foods? And the children in the alienage, they’ve been making a… sort of a model of you.”

Hawke’s smile faded. “A model,” she repeated flatly.

“And I think they wrote a song.”

Hawke removed her arms from Fenris and limped back toward the foyer. “Merrill, was this model made of straw?”

“I don’t—I’m not sure.”

“Or manure or something?”

“I…”

“Are you absolutely sure it’s a model made in my honor? And not an effigy made to spite me?”

Fenris laughed, but Merrill was horrified, a dainty hand over her open mouth. “No! At least I don’t think so.”

“But being friends with me, would they even tell you?” Hawke began lacing her second boot. “In Ferelden, when a noble got a bit too high on his horse, we had a tradition of making a model of him and then… well, let’s just say we reminded him that we had all the tools needed to knock him off his horse and straight into spikes. Or blades. Or fire. Mostly fire, really.”

Fenris secured his sword on his back. “Hawke, you have the people’s favor.”

“Favor is fickle, Fenris,” she said with a raised finger, “And so are people. The wind blows and Champions find themselves one head shorter.”

He pulled her to her now-matching feet. “They will have to go through me.”

“And me,” Merrill added. Hawke opened her mouth to say something, the words on the tip of her tongue as her eyes darted between them, but she changed her mind, opting to smile at Merrill instead.

“Then you shall have to wear a flower, too, as my escort,” Hawke said to her.

Eventually they did make it out the door, boots on Hawke’s feet, a flower adorning Merrill’s wrist. The noise in Lowtown wafted up the stairs—voices and drums, and as they descended, stringed instruments and chimes and yes, a hint of a song.

Hawke took him by the hand and asked, “And what are we doing for your birthday? It will be difficult to top whatever this is, I’m afraid.”

“We’ve celebrated my birthday three times already this year.”

“True, but I still don’t know exactly which day it is, so we have to keep celebrating just in case. I’d kick myself for missing it.”

“If you decide it lands on Satinalia, I think my festival will be bigger than yours.”

Predictably, on arriving to her birthday celebration, Hawke was detained by everyone who considered their own words too important to not be heard by a Champion. Birthday wishes, certainly, but also pompous bloating and veiled requests for favors. Nobles, it seemed, were not too good to slum it during a festival, but still demanded their fancies were entertained at their leisure. And Hawke was ever yielding.

After the longwinded and one-sided conversations, Hawke sought out every person who had crafted something in her honor, partaking of it, if it were food-based, or simply admiring it. Verbosely. The children of the alienage had indeed crafted a song for her, though Fenris made out no words other than ‘Arishok’ and ‘fire’. One Fereldan refugee had carved a small statuette of Hawke out of butter, complete with a mabari companion, and Hawke nervously asked if there were plans for melting it down by the end of the night.

“No!” was the shocked reply, “Though the cat did get a bite on your leg here, persistent little thing. I’ve tried to clean it up, but I’m afraid the left leg is a little smaller than the right.”

“Cats again,” Hawke muttered, after assuring the ‘artist’ that it was hardly noticeable over Fenris’s laughter.

Hawke was busy talking to the baker next to some large, hidden display when Fenris spotted Isabela exiting an alley, her hand happily on the rear of a familiar woman. She winked at him as she gave it a squeeze. Fenris was usually good with faces, and it itched at him that he could not place this one.

“She’s a disgraced noble who lost everything,” Isabela told him, after kissing her goodbye, “She’s been staying at the Hanged Man and was dreadfully lonely. She thinks I’m going to restore her fortune.”

Isabela laughed, but Fenris was experiencing the singular pleasure of remembering a fact he’d forgotten: Isabela’s paramour was the woman at the tavern who was unlucky enough to share Hawke’s room during her sleeping spell. How could he have forgotten that dour, glaring face? He supposed it looked a bit different with Isabela’s rouge smeared across it.

Fenris kept his expression and tone neutral as he said, “You never know, Isabela. Perhaps she will find you are all the fortune she needs in this world.”

Isabela made a gagging sound. “Happiness does _not_ suit you. I liked it better when you were brooding. You’re impossible to talk to what with all this marital bliss.”

He laughed freely now, and Isabela shoved him so that he stumbled right into an onlooker. He apologized, only to catch Hawke’s eye, a lopsided smile and a raised brow. She winked at him, and he started laughing again.

“Maker, please tell me you’re just drunk.”

“A little,” he admitted. Hawke couldn’t possibly drink every beverage thrust into her hands, after all, and he was an attentive escort.

“That’s alright then.”

With some fanfare, the sheet covering the baker’s stall was was pulled away, and underneath sat the largest cake Fenris had ever seen. Tiers and rosettes and more tiers and enough frosting to drown in, surrounded by more, smaller cakes. Hawke’s jaw dropped, and Fenris saw not a small amount of guilt cross her face. He supposed, from now on, they would be celebrating this date as her birthday and would forget all about the old one.

The baker was beaming. There was applause for the sugary monstrosity—and rightly so. On one of the cakes she had managed to frost it in the pattern of Hawke’s crest. Another bore a portrait of Porthos. “Go on,” the baker said to a boy clinging about her apron, “Hand her the knife, dear.”

The boy tripped—a loose cobblestone catching his toes—and Hawke reached for the knife, the blade sinking into her palm as she caught him from hitting the ground with her other hand. Hawke swallowed the profanity on her lips as Fenris took the knife from her. Feet back under him, the boy’s eyes welled with tears as he saw the blood drip from Hawke’s fist onto the ground. A cloth was pressed into her hand, and Hawke wrapped the gash tightly.

“No need for tears, sweet thing,” she said to him. “In fact, I think what you’ve done is boast-worthy. You’ve bested the Champion of Kirkwall with her own preferred fighting style. I think that means you might be Champion now.” She looked at Fenris. “What do you think, love, am I ready to retire?”

The boy, if anything, looked more upset than before, so she quickly assured him she would stay Champion for at least ten more years, until he was ready to fight her again. The baker looked absolutely stricken, and Hawke smiled as if nothing had occurred at all while pulling out one of her own knives. “Not meant for cake, generally, but it is clean, I promise.”

The people were suitably charmed, especially when she flipped it in the air and caught it with a flourish. Her other hand was clenched so tightly behind her, her fingers had gone white, but she cut the cake left-handed and took a bite for her audience as if nothing had happened at all.

“Maker, how did you know that lemons were my favorite?” she gushed loudly.

“I sent a letter to your man, serah,” the baker responded with a pleased flush and a glance at Fenris.

“You thought of everything.”

A more suitable knife had been found at this point, and as cake was being passed around, Hawke melted into the shadows. Fenris followed and caught the tail-end of a hearty expletive.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“It was only my right hand. It’s not like I use it for… everything. I’m certain I use my left for something.”

“May I see?”

“If I unwrap it, it will only start bleeding again. Best to leave it until we get home.”

He nodded, and soon forgot about it as dancing started up in the square outside of Gamlen’s hovel. Dancing in the alienage, too, by the sound of it, and the pair of them wound their way through the streets of Lowtown, enjoying the revelry as Hawke dodged any more attention. He wasn’t certain how she did it, tall, striking, bright, like a star around which he orbited, but she made herself unnoticed by the rest of the world even as they celebrated her existence long into the night.

# ~

“I brought you some cake.”

The clinic was empty, which made sense given that everyone in the entire city appeared to be celebrating. Then again, it was a little surprising, given how Kirkwallers celebrated and the associated dangers thereof. Hawke couldn’t possibly be the only one wounded by revelry. Anders spared her only a glance from the letter he was reading in the corner. 

“I don’t want cake.”

“Would you have preferred a sweet roll? I think could probably still get one. Or there was this spiced wine—very powerful, and Fenris _will_ be feeling it in the morning— but I thought cake would be easier to transport without spilling.”

Anders folded the letter up, still carefully not looking at her. “You shouldn’t have gone.”

“Really, Anders, it was my own birthday party. What was I supposed to do?”

“Stay home. Say you were ill. Tell them it wasn’t actually your birthday.”

“And disappoint the people?”

He rolled his eyes, and even Hawke had to admit how utterly conceited that sounded. “By going you give Meredith legitimacy. You made it seem like the two of you are friends. Like you approve of her agenda and she approves of yours.”

“I didn’t know she declared the feast day, Anders. And I think the only thing I came out in favor of was cake. Possibly spiced wine.”

“She used you.”

Hawke dropped the smile. “Everyone uses me.” Including Anders, if not especially Anders. “That’s the point of a Champion.”

Anders merely scoffed.

“Should I reject all birthday celebrations until all the mages are freed? No one can enjoy an afternoon of leisure until the Circles are disbanded?”

“Yes.”

“This might surprise you, but life isn’t exactly easy for the people of Lowtown. People need reasons to celebrate and relax and drink and eat. It builds morale.”

He was on his feet now, a little blue at the edges. “And if morale was lower, perhaps there would be more people fighting.”

It was impossible to talk to him when he was like this, and recently it felt like he was always like this. He turned her around in circles until she was certain of nothing other than her own failures. He was always right, a literal embodiment of justice, and what did Hawke know, really, about anything? When Anders was on her side, her cause was righteous, and everything felt simple. And when Anders was against her, she felt her resolve fracturing.

She knew that going to a party in Lowtown wasn’t wrong. Neither was eating leftover cake.

“Meredith didn’t make the cake, Anders. Lydia, that Fereldan who opened a bakery over near the docks a couple years ago? She made it. I think it must have taken her a week, what with all the different flavors and decorations and things. Probably cost her a fortune, too.”

Anders didn’t respond. Hawke placed it on his table. At least the rats would be well-fed, if he refused. Lydia’s oldest son was in the Circle, and Hawke had hardly seen the woman smile since the boy was taken away. She’d rented a place near the docks to be closer to him, and she’d once told Hawke she hoped the smell of fresh bread wafted to the Gallows and reminded her son of home, of her. Hawke didn’t tell her that the only smell in the Gallows was the stink of the wretched harbor. But Lydia had smiled today while cutting pieces of cake and handing them out. And she had smiled when Hawke had asked for extra to take with her. Hawke was certain that meant something.

“Wait,” Anders said without turning around. Hawke stood in the threshold while Anders sighed. “Show me your hand.”

“It’s nothing—”

“It could be infected.”

Anders unwrapped the cloth that served as bandage for her hand, and the wound opened again. She hissed as blood dripped on his floor. More tribute for the rats, Hawke supposed, and Anders sealed it with a gesture. She probably wouldn’t even have a scar.

Nobody had ever accused Hawke of giving up easily. “The cake is raspberry.”

Anders dropped her hand and tossed the cloth in a bin. “My favorite.”

“Yes. I know.”

With another dramatic sigh, Anders tore a piece off with his fingers and popped it into his mouth. He then held his hands out as if to say, _happy?_

It was enough of a concession for her. Unwilling to face streets filled with drunk merrymakers, and Fenris already tucked up in bed, Hawke took the secret passage back to her estate. Maker, she had to stop lying to people about things. Today was just a needless festival in her honor, but tomorrow?

Maker forbid she ever had to face the consequences of her actions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a lot of this fic ages ago, but it seems fitting I'm posting this chapter during my birthday week. Haven't decided what kind of cake to make myself yet, though. Lemon does sound good...
> 
> One of the things I've enjoyed about writing this fic was adding in the companions more. Focusing on mainly one-shots with Hawke, I haven't shown her interacting as much with certain companions that I love like Merrill. It's been a nice challenge to get them in here.


	5. Chapter 5

The wine had been deceptively strong. Sweet and spiced, and Fenris hadn’t tasted the potency of the alcohol hiding within.

This was his second thought on waking up alone in his bed, the first having been, simply, “No.” He hadn’t felt this hungover in a long while, and he probably should have realized the mistake when the whirling of the dancers in the alienage started to make him dizzy. Or when he lost track of the conversation, content to watch Hawke smile and chatter, until he wasn’t, and he pulled her into a dark corner. Her back against the wall, his lips on her neck, he would have had her there like that, no other thoughts in his head but the feel of her skin against his mouth. But Hawke laughed and told him that no corner stayed dark with him in it, her hand trailing down the lyrium that flashed and sparked under her touch.

“I am too old for this,” he muttered to no one in particular.

And out of practice. No pitcher of water on his bedside table to prepare for the inevitable pain. No elfroot in his bedside drawer. He pinched the bridge of his nose and urged the throbbing in his head to quiet itself.

They’d walked home together, his arm slung over her shoulders as throngs of people ascended the stairs back to Hightown. From his memory, for whatever it was worth, she’d had the sense to go easy on the drink, putting him to bed with a kiss on the forehead and then another, slower one he’d demanded. And after that, he slept. He supposed she was already up with a pot of tea somewhere, disgustingly awake for the morning. The sun was streaming in through the window, as the sun did, and Hawke did not like to be outshone.

He should probably attempt to move.

He sat up, placing his feet on the cool stone floor, and immediately dropped his head into his hands.

Or he could stay in bed for another three hours or so. Someone would eventually find him and bring him food and water.

It did not escape him how utterly untrue that might have been mere months ago.

Well, mostly untrue. Hawke would have found him eventually. Years ago, then. In those early days of Kirkwall, he sometimes had gone weeks at a time without seeing another person he knew.

Just as he decided that yes, curling up in bed and ignoring the sun was the best course for the day, his eyes landed on something on the floor. A heap whose incongruity in their bedroom confounded Fenris’s eyes before resolving itself.

 _Hawke_.

She was face down, her hair splayed out around her, one arm outstretched, the other beneath her.

He crossed the room in an instant, pulling her into his arms. She was breathing. He felt the relief fracture the tension in his chest, his own breaths coming in quickly, but it was tempered by the fact that she did not wake up.

_Not again._

He smoothed her hair away, looking for bruises or wounds or—he didn’t know. If she collapsed and hit her head—but there were no bumps he could find. No fever, no sweat. She looked unharmed, more or less. Her eyelids fluttered, her muscles twitching and clenching as if she were dreaming, but he could not wake her.

Not quite like last time. She was fighting it.

“Please,” he whispered, stroking her cheek, “Please, Hawke.”

The twitching grew stronger, and Fenris struggled to keep his grasp on her as she twisted, keep her head from being jerked around while she fought whatever this was. She gasped as her eyes shot open, her body falling entirely still. Her face was placid and vacant, and she blinked at him, unseeing.

“My love?” he asked. 

She made no sign of hearing him, even as he pushed her hair out her eyes. Still and empty, like a doll. Fenris pushed down his panic, the tightness in his chest and the reeling in his head. Her body began to tremble again, and he held her through it, whispering quietly to her, anything that came to mind. _Please come back,_ and _You are fine,_ and _I’ve got you._ A final, violent shudder, and her eyes widened with fear. 

“Where—why am I on the floor?” she asked, her breaths coming in ragged.

Fenris could have cried in relief, but instead he replied, “I don’t know.” He’d had no time to consider how—or _when—_ she might have fallen, much less how. He was drunk on sweet wine in their bed, and she was…

“How long?” she asked, clutching at him now with fingers that burned on his brands. “How long was I…?”

“I don’t know,” he said again, “No longer than one night.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. Her grasp on him eased, then relaxed entirely, her fingers sliding up his arm and finally around him as she buried her face in his shoulder. Fenris wrapped his arms around her, feeling as if he could breathe properly for the first time that morning. She came back. Whatever it was that was trying to take her, she came back.

“I must have had more to drink than I thought,” she murmured.

“Vishante kaffas,” he spat. Horse shit. Alcohol didn’t do this. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

As if to prove his point, she blurted out, “I’m bleeding.”

She shifted in his arms, and he saw the smear of blood across their skin. Fresh and red trailing from his shoulder to his palm.

“Your hand—” She held it in front of her, brow furrowing in something akin to horror. “It has just reopened,” he assured her, “We’ll bind it again.”

“ _No_.” She was shaking her head, stricken. “No, I saw Anders last night after I put you to bed. He healed it. I… I don’t remember what happened after that, but he healed my hand. There was nothing, nothing to reopen.”

Fenris could see her oozing hand was very much _not_ healed. He stood up to find something suitable to wrap it in. Clean linen would do. Hawke flinched as he tore it. “Is it possible that was a dream?”

“ _No!”_

He blinked in the face of her vehemence. She was still staring at the gash with widened, glassy eyes. “It was only one night?” she asked.

“Your false birthday was yesterday,” he answered, gently taking her hand and uncurling her fingers so he could wrap it. “You brought me home, and what happened after I do not know. We can… check with him about your hand. Have him heal it… again.”

Hawke closed her fist and groaned. “Not Anders again. We argued. And he was probably right it all,” she added under her breath, “I don’t know.”

“We should go see him. You might have hit your head when you fell. And he can fix your hand better than this.”

She flexed her fingers with a grimace. “I hate it when he’s cross with me.”

Fenris had never experienced the abomination _not_ being cross with him. He helped Hawke to her feet, and at least she seemed steady enough.

She didn’t seem to think the same about him. “Maybe you should stay here,” she suggested, “You… don’t look so good.”

He laughed. With his throbbing head, nausea, and Hawke’s blood smeared across his skin, she was probably right, and yet, entirely and completely wrong. “I found you face down on the floor this morning. I’m going with you.”

“Right. Yeah. Fair enough. Maybe Anders has something for hangovers.”

# ~

Showing fear in front of Fenris was a mistake. He trusted her to know her limits, and now that she’d found one, he’d transformed himself into a mother hen.

Broody was right for once. Nickname never stuck, but perhaps she’d get Varric to bring it back.

Now Fenris wanted her to actually _deal_ with the problem, and Hawke still had no idea how to do that. What kind of person attacks at random in monthly intervals? Hawke’s preferred fighting style might have relied on attacking from the shadows, using surprise or misdirection to gain the upper hand, but once she started attacking she bloody well finished the job.

Sloppy, that’s what it was. Sloppy work, like a cat, playing with its prey.

And that was if it even was an attack. As she bickered with Fenris about it, she grew less and less convinced. What was the _point?_ Make her fall asleep? Stab her non-fatally in one hand after she’d already survived that exact wound earlier in the day? Spend the night on the floor instead of in bed? She’d slept in worse. Her aching neck would recover with some stretching. And alcohol could have explained all of that, sort of, even if she hadn’t been drunk.

So poison, perhaps. Maybe even two different really, really terrible poisoners. One who instead of killing her, gave her a nap, and the other… blocked her memory of being stabbed in the hand, _again_ , and then tripping and hitting her head or something and left her in her own bedroom to be woken up by a hungover or possibly also poisoned Fenris. Not that she had any bumps or bruises roundabout the head. She checked. So just a shorter nap, then, with a light stabbing on the side.

Pointless.

So of course Fenris wanted to go to the templars.

No, no, facing Anders this morning wasn’t enough for him, he wanted her to go to the templars and tell them theoretical magical nonsense was happening to her and somehow convince them to help her in a way that wasn’t simply tossing her in the Gallows or running her through. Templars didn’t _have_ solutions other than those two. By the void, they were so incompetent, Meredith had started turning to _Hawke_ for help in doing those two things now. Probably ask her to stab herself and save them the energy.

But Hawke had a moment of weakness, and now Fenris wouldn’t leave it alone, clucking at her about her “health” and “wellbeing” or whatever. So they took the hidden passageway to Darktown that Hawke had no memory of coming up through the night before, and somehow that stilled her arguing tongue because she really, truly didn’t remember and there was a bloody handprint on the door to the cellars. So she grabbed Fenris’s hand, spiked gauntlet and all, and that did _nothing_ to settle him. Probably bolstered his argument. A problem for when they were elsewhere, really. For now, she threaded her fingers between his and walked as quickly as she could.

Unlike the prior night, Anders had his hands full. With a wave of nausea, Hawke wondered if Fenris was right and it had been a dream of some sort. Had the clinic ever been so empty? But no—a half-eaten piece of cake sat on the table where she had left it. Proof enough that it had been real.

She leaned into Fenris, which was a bit of a mistake. On his urging, they had eschewed breakfast and hot tea to meet with Anders in haste, and Fenris was not at his best this morning to say the least. With her weight on him, his balance faltered for a moment, and they crashed into the table, the remnants of cake splattering on the ground.

The two of them very guiltily sat miserably together on one of Anders’ camp beds instead.

“I’m not wasting my time on hangover cures this morning,” Anders called over his shoulder. Hawke shrugged at Fenris and stood up to leave, but Fenris had predicted her idiocy and his fingers tugged on her wrist, pulling her back down to sitting.

When Anders finally came to examine them, he snatched at Hawke’s hand. “I healed this already. What have you been doing?”

“It opened up again?” she offered.

“Not bleeding likely.”

“I assure you,” Fenris replied, “There was bleeding with one hundred percent likelihood.”

Hawke rolled her eyes, and once again Anders had her healed up. She traced a finger over her palm, just as whole as yesterday, no scar to mark the mysterious wound.

“There’s more,” Fenris said as Anders made to walk away. “Hawke… woke up on the floor this morning.”

At Fenris’s urging, she reluctantly admitted, “I don’t remember the gash or how I got home after seeing you last night.” 

“So your concern is that after a night of drinking potent wine, you woke up on the floor? Isn’t that just a regular evening for you, Hawke?”

It might have been a jab, but Anders was on _her_ side. She tried not to gloat. “Not recently. But I take your point.”

“There was nothing normal about it,” Fenris growled, “She had a… a fit.”

Hawke didn’t really remember this part. The way Fenris described it, she was rather glad she didn’t. It sounded creepy.

“Has that ever happened before?” Anders asked, tilting her head up to look in her eyes. Not to Hawke’s knowledge. He did a number of other little tests, mainly asking Hawke to count his fingers or look at his fingers or _not_ look at his fingers, and in the end he shrugged.

“I don’t sense magic,” he said, “And you aren’t showing any signs of a head injury. If you have another fit, though, it could be serious.”

Fenris grumbled, something nasty in Tevene she was sure. “Perhaps the templars will be of more use,” he suggested.

Anders raised an eyebrow. “If you go to the templars with this concern, they are as likely to strike you down for being an abomination as they are to help you. More likely, actually.”

“That’s what I said,” Hawke replied with a pointed look at Fenris. She knew she could count on Anders. Coming to see him was a great idea.

“They can cleanse her of any residual magic,” he argued, “Perhaps they can sense something you can’t.”

To her horror and complete betrayal, Anders sighed. “That _is_ twice now some mysterious force has brought you down, Hawke. Perhaps they know of some escaped mage or something with a vendetta. Though I doubt it,” he added under his breath.

The absolute traitor. Fenris and Anders agreeing on something? If anything, _this_ was the hallucination, and she'd wake up in her bed, no bloody hand. She put her foot down. “I am _not_ going to talk to the templars!”

# ~

“So, Knight-Captain Cullen,” Hawke started, toe kicking the dirt in front of her. He hadn’t killed that templar from before, Keran, his name was, so maybe he wouldn’t kill her for falling victim to… sleeping in strange places. That was years ago, though, and Cullen looked… well as hungover as Fenris had looked this morning, and Fenris was sleeping it off in the blissful peace that only comes from soundly winning an argument. Cullen looked like he hadn’t slept since she dropped off Keran. “I have a hypothetical question that is purely meant for my own personal edification and has no application whatsoever in my real life now or in the future.”

His cautious scowl metamorphosed into a distinctly annoyed scowl. “Okay.”

“If someone were to be, oh, I don’t know, _hexed_ , let’s say, hypothetically, would a templar be able to sense that hex?”

“That depends on the nature of the hex, Serah Hawke.”

She nodded. That about covered it. “Very instructive. Well, thank you for your time. I’ll be heading back now.”

“Serah Hawke!” he called after her, very loudly so that other templars in the yard were now staring at her. She smiled—she was pretty sure it was a smile anyway—and returned, lest he shout her hypothetical business for all to hear. “If you are having trouble with mages, we could station templars outside your estate.”

“Yes, Meredith has been longing to stake me out for a while, hasn’t she? But no, no problems here, I’m definitely not being hunted by a blood mage for sport. And she doesn’t seem the type to attack me face to face, anyway.”

“She?” Cullen asked, “If you know who it is, the Knight-Commander will want to know. I should report all of this.”

Hawke paused at that. How did she know it was a woman who attacked her? _Did_ she know that? Her smile grew tight across her face. “Like I said, Knight-Captain, all of this was strictly hypothetical. There’s nothing to report. Though if Meredith is aware of any outstanding blood mages and where they might be hiding, I’d be happy to play the bounty hunter again.”

If Hawke were superstitious, she would have crossed her fingers. She wasn’t surprised when Cullen was simply too tired to push her. She’d push back all day long if she needed to, and he knew it. He shook his head. 

“Before you go, I could check for hexes. Cleanse anything off of you, if you like.”

A pause to consider, and she gave the tiniest nod, as if there was a difference between submission and grudging submission. He did his templar thing on her in the end, for whatever good that was. And it wasn’t subtle. People noticed the light that struck her and radiated out. _Templars_ noticed. Eyebrows were raised, suspicions were whispered, and Hawke thanked him and left as fast as she could.

**Author's Note:**

> More tags will be added as chapters are posted! 
> 
> Find me on tumblr at nug-juggler


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